


i'm getting jiggy with a rifle, pulling the trigger with my eyes closed

by blessed_image (orphan_account)



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Ethan Winters Has Issues, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, i have so many feelings i had to do this, i only played it and i have issues now LMAOJSIDFHSUK, kinda? idk, mia isnt very comforting in this, missing ethan hours <3, who tf wouldnt after re7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23184811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/blessed_image
Summary: He stares at the door. It doesn’t open.
Relationships: Ethan Winters/Mia Winters
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	i'm getting jiggy with a rifle, pulling the trigger with my eyes closed

He stares at the door. It doesn’t open.

Back in the guest house, the air was thin. Nothing odd, or out of place, and as long as you could ignore the rotting smell of Andre’s corpse and the blood pouring out of his wife’s neck- you wouldn’t bat an eye. Maybe, you would find it odd that the place seemed both abandoned and maintained; and that there was his wife clawing up the staircase when you tried to leave. Other than that, it was bearable. 

When there were no blades ripping into and shredding the door, when the paint doesn’t sporadically rust in front of your eyes. 

He stares at the door. It doesn’t rattle or bang, there are no footsteps and his fingers aren’t wrapped tightly around a gun and he’s definitely not shaking.

“What are you doing?” a voice asks, and it’s smooth.

Mia-

-She’s okay. He should remember that. There’s a pause. He stares at the door some more.

This isn’t a house with odd doors, and scattered firearms, and freak puzzles, and thick moulded air, and an insane man _who can’t fucking die_ chasing you-

This is a house where he wants to rip the doors off their hinges, despite what his landlord and wife would say. The windows are not barred shut, and the only thing chasing him is his nightmares. And there’s certainly no dead cop in the dissection room- what kind of fucking house has a _dissection_ room, anyway?

He blinks at the door. More importantly, he ignores Mia.

“Ethan.” It’s too soft, he thinks, like that short-lived moment just before she tore into his hand with a screwdriver. And then fucking cut it off. But it’s okay, she’s okay and he’s okay. “You can open it.”

Can he?

He lets his eye wander, and there are no body bags hanging from the ceiling that he has no choice but to kick at- and there is no chainsaw lodged into _something_ in the back. He looks back at the door, sighing.

“No.” he says, stern but fragile all the same. 

“No.” he convinces himself there’s nothing shaky about his voice, or his shoulders, even when he feels Mia’s arms firmly hold him in place. He tries to ignore the voice in his head that tells him to push her away and _run_.

There is no Marguerite and her bugs, no toxin stinging through his veins and he’s not clicking together a flamethrower- _what the fuck_ \- and he’s not being pushed through planks of wood and he’s no longer fighting with the cosmic joke that is a woman with an egg sac under her-

“What the fuck.” He laughs quietly, and Mia runs thin fingers and long, chipped nails across his collarbone. 

“There’s nothing, Ethan.” He has to remember she isn’t demanding him, and she is not angry. There’s no little girl, or seven foot monsters only kept together with mould.

There’s no light shining through the underside of the door. 

Lucas’ voice does not call over the speakers, and there are no bombs here- besides maybe the insistent fear he sometimes feels radiating off of him. He doesn’t think about Clancy Jarvis, the Ethan before Ethan, who represents the more realistic outcome of his own experience. He is no longer being thrown around by Jack, who just _refuses_ to fucking die. He is not longer being asked to choose between his wife and a girl who is as much of a victim as he is, maybe more so.  
  
(He would choose his wife anyway, because he’s selfish and cares more for returning to normalcy than anything else. Despite the cost.)

He doesn’t want to think about how he woke to see Mia ripping him out of forcibly induced slumber. He doesn’t want to think about the boat. He doesn’t want to think about the salt mines, and how that fear he had thought he felt was suddenly tenfold. And he certainly doesn’t want to think about Eveline, who so sadly asked him why everyone hated her- and he refuses to think about how he never really had an answer to that, despite all she had done in her time. He hates to think about any of it. But he does anyway.

“You’re right.” He says back to her, and another thing he hates to think of is how she was also right to tell him to stay away- and he hates that he wishes he really did do that, despite his prevention of the situation at the Baker’s continuing. He hates it.

Mia hums in his ear.

“Maybe…” she says, and he feels a little sick. She doesn’t mean it as how he interpreted it, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

He looks back at the door. It doesn’t open.


End file.
